Bebe Moore Campbell by 72 Hour Hold

Author:72 Hour Hold
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Psychological, Psychological Fiction, Fiction, Literary, Manic-Depressive Persons, Mothers and Daughters, Mental Health Services, Domestic Fiction
ISBN: 1400033616
Publisher: Anchor
Published: 2005-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

15

STEAL AWAY, STEAL, AWAY, STEAL AWAY HOME. I AIN’T GOT long to stay here. Gabriel Prosser. Denmark Vesey. Nat Turner. Harriet Tubman. Did they all begin with secret meetings and whispered plans? Did they change their minds more than once? To steal away home was more than a notion.

Halfway to the restaurant, I turned my car around and headed home. What was I doing, speeding down Wilshire to meet a woman I knew to be operating more on rage than common sense? But then I thought about those bright green sneakers, walking away from me in such a big hurry, and turned around again. Whatever Bethany had to offer, at least it wouldn’t involve being at the mercy of people who just didn’t give a damn.

This time the meeting was in the back booth of a coffee shop on Wilshire, down the street from the behemoth that housed Children’s Services. Four o’clock was an odd time to go to a restaurant, but I hadn’t eaten since my breakfast muffin, so I was hungry. Bethany was there with a tall pale man named Brad. She introduced me as Keri. When he said hello, his voice was low, a strong voice. His handshake was dry and warm, his grip filled with steady pressure. He had sandy hair and darker eyebrows, elegantly arched. He looked clean and honest, a bit boyish. His chin jutted forward a little.

We ordered food—appetizers, entrees, coffee, and desserts—as if we were coworkers having a friendly dinner, perhaps celebrating someone’s promotion. We chatted about the headlines and the weather, about movie stars and the Lakers. Brad didn’t clink a glass with a spoon or clear his throat, but I felt the moment that defined our purpose. He put his two hands on the table. They were large hands, with clean, square fingernails and no rings.

His voice was just above a whisper. “We are a group of psychologists and psychiatrists who believe that the mental health system in this country is a sad joke,” Brad said. “All the members of our group have worked in hospitals and in a variety of mental health institutions; we’ve experienced firsthand the wasted opportunities for people to recover.” He leaned in. “Recovery is possible for people when the right conditions are present. We assist the relatives, mostly the parents, of people who need an intervention but are too sick to accept help. We forgo the nine-one-one, the SMART people, the conservatorship. We transport the ill person to a safe place: our safe place. Once the patient is there, the relative leaves and we take over.”

“What do you—”

Brad held up his hand, his face suddenly stern.

“What we do is illegal. We could all go to jail. Kidnapping is involved at times. It is not for the faint of heart, and there are no guarantees.”

The longer he talked, the more alive he became. I tried to read his face. Committed man on a mission? Kook ready to spontaneously combust? Reincarnation of John Brown? How would Clyde

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